Poetry - "The Last War"
Hear, O Israel,
your silence is deafening.
I do not know
who last spoke, if it was you or me or my mother,
after we arose and pried apart
our curtains, revealing a dark sky
and a parking lot, and remembered
that there are too many wars
and too few children
who live without them.
Dawn crawled into our beds.
In my pajamas, I read the names aloud
that face the ground.
While you were weeping we stayed awake:
Shhh, we said. Shh.
We said that your children
are standing at the gates of redemption.
We said you will welcome them soon.
We said birthing pangs are holy, too.
We meant it
as much as we could.
your silence is deafening.
I do not know
who last spoke, if it was you or me or my mother,
after we arose and pried apart
our curtains, revealing a dark sky
and a parking lot, and remembered
that there are too many wars
and too few children
who live without them.
Dawn crawled into our beds.
In my pajamas, I read the names aloud
that face the ground.
While you were weeping we stayed awake:
Shhh, we said. Shh.
We said that your children
are standing at the gates of redemption.
We said you will welcome them soon.
We said birthing pangs are holy, too.
We meant it
as much as we could.